Call to Treason (2004)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 11

“The medical examiner is going to forward her updated report in about ninety minutes,” McCaskey said. “Fifteen minutes after that, most of Washington will have heard the news.”

  Daily sighed audibly. “You know, it used to be panem et circensis, bread and circuses, that kept the populace happy. Now it is cell phones and the Internet. They allow us to savor the blood and pain of others in real time.”

  “Not everyone does that,” McCaskey said.

  “Indeed we do,” Daily declared. “Some of us don’t enjoy it, I’ll grant you, but most do. Recidivism, it seems, is not just for criminals. Society itself has retreated to barbarism.”

  The harshness of the condemnation surprised McCaskey. He did not want to believe that the majority of people were rubberneckers at best and moral savages at worst, that they were no different than killers or molesters who could not be rehabilitated. He had always felt that society was basically sound, that it needed only occasional tweaks from people like himself and Daily to stay on course.

  This was not, however, the time to debate philosophy. McCaskey rang Bugs Benet to find out if the boss was free. He was. McCaskey said he would be right over.

  As the former FBI agent hurried along the corridor, he realized there was an aspect to foreknowledge that Vic Witherman had missed. Terrorism was easy. All it took was a moment of angry resolve to tear things down. Keeping things together required courage and commitment.

  Humanism. That was difficult.

  TWELVE

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 1:44 P.M.

  Paul Hood called around to find out if the department heads in nonclassified areas needed an intern. They did not. Lowell Coffey said he would be happy to work with a legal trainee. Frankie Hunt did not fit that profile. Kevin Custer in Electronic Communications said he would take on someone with interest in the field. Otherwise, it was a waste of everyone’s time. Other division leaders said more or less the same thing. Hood could have pushed them, but he did not. As he made the calls, he had already decided he did not want the kid working at Op-Center. Someone who helped a friend was “a nice man.” Someone who helped his former wife was “a man with guilt.” Someone who helped the lover of their former wife was not a man at all.

  Working behind the scenes at Op-Center instead of in the light at Los Angeles City Hall had tempered Hood’s healthy but modest narcissism somewhat. But it had not quite turned him into a masochist. Sharon, on the other hand, was mossy with fresh self-interest and vanity. She felt her former husband owed her time, effort, and attention, and she was determined to collect.

  Hood would wait a few hours before calling Sharon. That would make it seem as if he had made more of an effort than he had. At least he did not have a lot of time to think about it. Hood had spent a lot of time with CFO Ed Colahan working on the budget cuts. There was not a division of Op-Center that would be unaffected. Matt Stoll’s computer division would lose six of its twelve employees, Herbert would lose one of his six intel analysts, and the field force Mike Rodgers had assembled would be eliminated. Operatives like David Battat and Aideen Marley would be recruited on a case-by-case basis. Lowell’s four-person legal office would be cut to three. Custer would have to release one of his four electronics surveillance people. The night staff would also be reduced. Each time Hood okayed a cut, he knew he was not only affecting an employee but national security. Op-Center had established a singular way of working. Homeland Security could not simply reassign those tasks to the FBI or CIA; Hood and his people had the trust of agents at Interpol, at the Russian Op-Center, at other agencies around the world. Time, personnel, and funds were required to maintain the quid pro quo nature of those valuable relationships. The cuts were going to impact that severely.

  Darrell McCaskey walked in just as Colahan was leaving with his laptop.

  “How are you holding up, Paul?” McCaskey asked. He shut the door behind him as the CFO left.

  “When I was mayor, I had to cut billions from the Los Angeles city budget,” Hood said. “That was politically painful but faceless. Each stroke of a key today was someone I know.” Hood sat back. McCaskey looked preoccupied. “You heard about Mike Rodgers?”

  “Yeah. Bob was so mad he nearly ran me over.”

  “I haven’t heard from him yet,” Hood said.

  “He’s laying low till he cools off,” McCaskey said. “He should be in to see you some time next week.”

  Hood smiled. “What can I do for you?”

  “Ironically, you’re going to need to loan me out for a couple of days.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I think William Wilson was murdered.”

  Hood’s smile evaporated. “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. This is going to be a big one.”

  “How did you get involved?”

  “Scotland Yard asked me to bird-dog the autopsy,” McCaskey said. “I went to the Georgetown medical center and had a look at the body. The ME missed an injection in the root of the tongue. We sent a skin sample to the lab. There was a concentrated trace of potassium chloride, a drug that can be used to stop the heart.”

  “That’s damned impressive, Darrell.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Have you informed the Yard?” Hood asked.

  “I did,” McCaskey said. “They’re going to work through the British embassy to get their own people involved. Until then, they asked if I would be their point man on the investigation.”

  “What are we looking at, time-wise?”

  “Three or four days,” McCaskey told him.

  “That’s when media attention will be at a saturation peak,” Hood said.

  “I know. The good news is, public attention got us more money after the North Korean incident,” McCaskey said.

  “That was a very different time, when Congress regarded the old institutions as tired, not blue-chip solid,” Hood said. “This is going to be a big, public investigation. If Op-Center is on the news every night, the CIOC may see that as a ploy for fund retrocession.”

  “Please. The CIOC can’t be that naive.”

  “Not naive, Darrell. Suspicious.”

  “Of what? They know we have to help other agencies if we want their assistance,” McCaskey said.

  “You’re assuming that we’re supposed to survive,” Hood said. “The CIOC and our older brothers may have other plans.”

  “Staggered dismantling,” McCaskey said.

  “It’s possible,” Hood said.

  “Okay,” McCaskey said. “Assume the other agencies are leaning on the CIOC to cut us back—”

  “I don’t have to assume that,” Hood told him. “They are. Senator Debenport told me.”

  “In that case, we should not get locked into a siege mentality,” McCaskey said. “We should lean back, put our assets in peoples’ faces. Senator Debenport will probably be thrilled to take a corner of the spotlight. What politician wouldn’t want to be seen as a crusading crime buster?”

  “He’ll say ‘Cheese’ and maximize the benefits of that exposure,” Hood agreed. “And when the lights go off, he’ll turn to me and say—prodded hard by the other agencies—that there is obviously too much fat on Op-Center’s bones. He may ask for additional reductions.”

  “The electorate wouldn’t stand for that, especially if we’re working on a high-profile case.”

  “The voters might surprise you,” Hood said. “They want to know that government agencies are doing their jobs. Our job is crisis management. Finding the killer is a Metropolitan Police matter, not a hostage situation or terrorist threat. Voters also don’t like it when the rich get special attention. Finding the killer of a European multibillionaire who was trying to take money from American banks, and jobs from our shores, is not as important as making sure landmarks and airports are secure.”

  “I can’t believe our society has gotten that self-absorbed,” McCaskey said. “I refuse to believe it.”

  “Oh, we have,” Hood assured him. “We once saw endless possibility and opportunity in all direc
tions except down. That was the American definition of beauty. Do you know what happens to the narcissist who stops feeling beautiful?”

  “Yeah. He gets botox treatments.”

  “No,” Hood said. “He gets scared that he’s going to lose everything else.”

  “He does that, or America does that?”

  “Both, I suppose,” Hood replied.

  McCaskey looked a little sad. Hood did not like where this was going. The next visit would be from Liz Gordon, who would chat and probe and try to determine if he were acting out.

  Maybe with good reason, Hood thought. “Darrell, look. I’m not asking you to have a seat in my bunker.”

  “I know that, Paul—”

  “My personal concerns don’t change the fact that the threat to Op-Center is real,” Hood went on. “We lost a fifth of our budget today. We can’t ignore the possibility that there will be additional cuts.”

  “I agree.”

  “At the same time, we have to do what we can to help our colleagues,” Hood continued. “All I want you to do is fly as far under the radar as possible.”

  “In D.C.?”

  “I know,” Hood said with resignation. “Just be careful. If your name gets attached to this, I don’t want any interviews. Make sure your Yard contact understands the low-profile agenda, and maintain minimal C and C with your colleagues at the Bureau.”

  C and C was contact and collaboration. It described the friendly enemy status of relations between rival domestic law enforcement and intelligence groups. Most international agencies got along fine.

  “I will go out in stealth mode,” McCaskey promised.

  “Good. And when you nail the guy who did this, we’ll have another look at how to play it with Debenport and the CIOC.”

  “Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia, and then we’ll talk.”

  “Something like that,” Hood said.

  “Sounds good. And chief? I know it’s been a tough morning. If I came on a little hard, I’m sorry.”

  “You asked the right questions at the right time,” Hood said. “If I can’t take that, I don’t deserve to be in this chair.”

  McCaskey smiled. It was good to see that.

  When McCaskey left, Hood told Bugs to hold his calls for five minutes. Then he rubbed his forehead and thought again about the situation with Frankie Hunt. If it were about his son, Alexander, Hood would not have failed to get him an internship. Sharon knew that. So she would know that her former husband had given this minimal effort—if that. Would the little bit of self-respect he gained be worth the little bit of self-respect he could give?

  Hesitantly, as though it were a coiled snake, Hood reached for the phone. He began making more calls, in a less ambivalent voice than he had used that morning.

  THIRTEEN

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 2:17 P.M.

  The telephone call came from Detective Robert Howell of the D.C. Metropolitan Police. Kendra Peterson took it in her office. The detective asked to speak with the senator. He would not say why. Orr was working in the sunlit conference room with Admiral Link and Kat Lockley. Kendra conferenced in the senator, then joined them. Orr put the call on the speakerphone. His American flag tie was loose, and his shirtsleeves were opened at the cuffs and pulled back along his forearms.

  “Senator, before the news hits the grapevine, I wanted you to know that William Wilson appears to have been murdered.”

  Howell said it quickly, efficiently, and unemotionally. The impact was like Franklin Roosevelt describing the day that would live in infamy.

  “How did it happen?” Orr asked. He realized he had to take charge of the discussion. Everyone else was too stunned.

  “Mr. Wilson was apparently given an injection of a heart-inhibiting drug,” Howell replied.

  “Presumably by the woman he met in his hotel?” Orr asked.

  “That is our assumption. We’ll require fine tissue analysis beyond the scope of the original autopsy to determine what the heart muscle may have absorbed. That will take several days of extensive circulatory analysis.”

  “Detective, this is Admiral Ken Link. Was the new evidence discovered after the autopsy was completed?” he asked.

  “Just a few hours ago, Admiral,” Howell said. “The medical examiner tells me that a gentleman from Op-Center had a look at the body and discovered the puncture mark.”

  “Op-Center? What were they doing there?” Link asked.

  “I don’t have that information, sir,” Howell said.

  “And they found this wound in the presence of an ME?” Link pressed.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I wouldn’t trust those spy boys to run a fair Bingo game,” said the Oregon-born officer.

  “ ‘Those’ meaning from Op-Center?” Howell asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have reason to suspect they would falsify something like this?” Howell asked.

  “Their budget was gutted this morning,” Link replied. “Paul Hood needs something to get back in the game.”

  “Including sabotaging a body on short notice?” Howell asked.

  “Jury-rigged sabotage is what field operatives do,” Link pointed out. “Detective, I’m not accusing Op-Center of wrongdoing. I am only saying that the timing is suspicious.”

  Kat touched the mute button. “Ken, we can ask Mike Rodgers about that when he gets here.”

  “That may not be wise,” Link said.

  “People, we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Orr said. The senator deactivated the mute function. “Detective Howell, what kind of scrutiny is this office facing?”

  “I honestly don’t know, sir,” Howell told him. “We need to find that woman. If he met her at a bar on the way home, or if he called an escort service some time during the day, then obviously you’re clear. If she was one of your guests, then I’m afraid the paddy wagon will kick up some mud.”

  “Understandable,” Orr admitted. “You have the guest list from the party.”

  “Yes, sir. We are in the process of interviewing the attendees.”

  “Detective, I truly appreciate the call,” Orr said. “If we hear anything about the mystery woman, I will certainly let you know.”

  “Thank you, Senator. I will do the same.”

  Orr terminated the call. He sat back and crossed his big arms. “Who is she? Any thoughts, guesses?”

  No one spoke. Orr was not surprised. When Ken Link worked at the CIA, Op-Center was perceived as a rival. The former admiral had an opportunity for payback and took the shot. There were always potential enemies among allies, and no one wanted to say anything that might backfire. Washington was a town of two degrees of separation. Between the four of them, they had known everyone at the party. Everyone at the party knew virtually everyone in D.C.

  “All right then,” Orr went on. “Kat, does this change our strategy for the interviews tonight?”

  “Not as far as the comments about Mr. Wilson,” Kat replied. She looked over her notes. “When asked about the death you were going to say, ‘As an inventor, Mr. Wilson left behind a significant technological legacy.’ Two mentions of his credentials as a scientist to suggest that Wilson was no banking genius. I do not see why we need to change that.”

  “I agree, but the murder charge is sure to come up,” Kendra said. “The senator will need to address it.”

  “I would deflect it with a boilerplate comment about the charges being hearsay or a police matter,” Kat told them. “Get in and out, say something that doesn’t invite a follow-up.”

  “Why?” Kendra asked.

  The question surprised Kat. “Because the press would love to link the senator or any public figure to a homicide,” Kat said.

  “We’re already linked,” Kendra pointed out. “Wilson was dead within two hours of leaving the party.”

  “Where are you going with this, Kendra?” Orr asked.

  “The USF will have a platform built on the common-sense rights of American citizens. That includes just
ice for all and a presumption of innocence. Let’s be proactive about that. Tell the interviewer that innuendo is impertinent, intolerable, and eroding our society. That the quest for sensational headlines is counterproductive to the dignity inherent in our judicial system.”

  “That’s like trying to reason with a cheetah or shame a snake,” Kat said. “A predator can’t change what it is.”

  “Let them hiss. I’m talking about presenting our courage,” Kendra said. “We can’t be afraid to take on the press, and this would be a good time and place to marginalize them.”

  “I agree that the point is worth making,” the senator said thoughtfully. “But the immediate aftermath of Wilson’s death is probably not the best time.”

  “You’ll have the nation’s ear,” Link said.

  The admiral did not usually weigh in unless he felt strongly about something. Orr could not remember a time when his inner circle was this divided. Kendra was sitting ramrod straight, her expression tense. Kat was drumming her pen on her pad. Link was hunched over the table as if he were playing a naval war game, staring at a map and toy battleships. Orr did not know whether it was the pressure of the upcoming convention, the shock of the latest revelation, or both. He could not let himself be affected by either of those. As president, which he hoped to be, Orr would have to respond to greater crises with vision, intelligence, and poise.

  “Ken, are you at all concerned that we will appear opportunistic or defensive?” Orr asked.

  “Not especially,” Link replied. “Speaking the truth aggressively is a mark of confidence. As for opportunism, it’s the media that is taking advantage of you. You’re only getting this particular airtime because of Wilson’s death.”

  “The audience will perceive the media as neutral,” Kat insisted. “They are the medium. We are the message.”

  “I agree completely,” Kendra said. “Which is why we have to defend the women who were at our party. Otherwise, we will be perceived as using this misfortune just to get the senator’s face out there.”

  “Kendra, none of our guests has been charged with a crime,” Kat pointed out.

  “But all of them, you and I included, will be investigated by agents of the law and by the press,” Kendra said.